


Be Your Shelter

by Amatara



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 18:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13553511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amatara/pseuds/Amatara
Summary: It's not an easy thing to accept comfort when it’s offered, instead of playing it safe and pushing people away. Paul's a slow learner, but that doesn't mean he's not learning nonetheless.





	Be Your Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone wondering about the "choose not to warn": there's one scene, set during one of the time loops of _Magic to make the sanest man go mad_ , that features a character death. Not a definitive one, and please trust that I put it in there for a narrative purpose, not just for the angst, but I thought I'd give a heads-up anyway.

   
*  
  


What makes it worse is how well Straal takes it.

Not at first, of course. When the order comes in, he rages as loudly as Paul, hurling insults at Starfleet like it might win him some kind of originality prize. That, or avert the inevitable, though they both know it’s not likely to. It still helps to get angry anyway. They’re birds of a feather in that respect; they only differ in how fast they run out of steam.

It’s not that Straal gives up, exactly. It’s that he’s always been smarter at picking his fights than Paul, better at conserving his energy. Do the best you can, take pride in doing it, don’t get too riled up about anything else. It’s a healthy mindset, not to mention one that gets things done, and Paul’s tried more than once to adopt it for himself. He made another attempt tonight, joining his team in the bar after breaking the bad news to them, but his gut clenched on the first drink and he didn’t even last an hour. So now he’s back in his quarters, squinting at the stars spinning by through the viewport while he tries not to lose himself to despair. Except of course it’s not the stars spinning, it’s the lab, locked in its orbit just like Paul is locked in his, his freedom and his project usurped to wage war, and fuck, _fuck_ , how can this be happening, just when things were going so well?

The knot in his belly hardens, and Paul can taste acid at the back of his throat. He feels breathless, like being smothered under a wet blanket, and his fingers are numb when he drags them through his hair. Maybe it’s just the alcohol talking - even if he stopped after one glass - but there’s an ache in his chest that’s getting more persistent, flaring up with every breath. Even the stars that used to seem so inviting feel like a silent warning now. Here there be dragons. Out here is war.

When the message comes in, Paul is on the edge of the bed, hands wrung together in his lap. He stabs at the intercom next to his pillow, watches it flash a name back at him.

_Culber, Hugh. Accept live call?_

Hugh. Who else? Probably came off-shift and found Paul’s message waiting for him, recorded and sent several hours ago while the news was still fresh and Paul’s anger was, too. Hugh is a Starfleet officer, sure, but Paul's never let that stop him from roasting them for sticking their noses where they don’t belong. He can’t remember the details of his message, but he remembers how he said it, and of course Hugh would want to talk in person after that. He’ll also be walking on eggshells, most likely, and as much as Paul adores the man, the thought of being coddled now is just too much.

“Accept. Audio only,” he says. He might just survive this conversation if he can avoid having to meet Hugh’s eyes. Not that they’re not pretty eyes - set in the prettiest face in the universe, or at least the parts of it known to Paul - but they also have an unsettling habit of seeing far more than he's ready to share.

“Paul?” Hugh says, then, sounding puzzled, “I’m not getting a visual. Are you?”

“No, but that’s fine. I’d rather just…” Paul trails off, recoiling from the prospect of having to explain. “You heard, then,” he says simply, not bothering to elaborate.

If there’s hesitation behind Hugh’s reaction, it’s subtle enough that Paul can’t tell. “I heard, yes,” he says simply. “And I’m so sorry, Paul. I made some calls, and I know this won’t be what you wanted to hear, but… it turns out they _can_ actually do this. Not force you to work for them, not that, but impound your research for the war effort, yes. They said they’re building the ships now, they’ll be finished in weeks…”

Paul mutters a curse into sweaty hands. At some level, he heard everything Hugh said, but none of it makes any sense and the words keep rattling around in his brain. He wasn’t really holding out much hope that Starfleet had overstepped its bounds. But hearing the cold, hard facts from Hugh’s mouth makes it sound so much more definitive now.

“It’s not fair,” he groans. “Either we give in and lick Starfleet's heel, or we hand over twelve years of research to some trigger-happy engineer who can’t tell the difference between a fungus and a yeast, and I - I don’t even know which of those is worse, so how can I make that choice?” He’s ranting, he knows he is, and there’s no way Hugh won’t realize it too, but he still isn’t able to stop himself. Especially because there _is_ no choice. Of course Paul’s not just going to give up his life’s work and let someone else twist it into a tool of war.

“We’ll figure it out,” Hugh says, with quiet conviction. Paul imagines him hovering in front of the console, palms upturned as if to physically reach across the void. “And you’re right. None of it’s fair, starting with this war, and I can’t make it any fairer, but I’ve got your back, okay? If you want to walk away, I’ll help you walk away. And if you choose to be on that ship, then I’ll come, too - just watch them try and stop me. You’re not in this alone.”

Paul is shaking his head before Hugh has stopped talking, his skull throbbing as he holds it between his hands. Did Hugh just guess every thought going through his mind? Is he really that transparent? That… _needy_ , that Hugh feels he has to talk him down, offer to carry him through this? No. As much as the comfort means, Paul can’t accept it. He has to take these first steps on his own, make whatever decision that needs to be made without anyone - even Hugh - getting into his head. If he doesn’t, he’ll always doubt himself after.

“Hey… You feeling alright?” Hugh says into the silence, and Paul comes back to himself with a queasy jolt. His vision is dotted with the specks of imaginary stars, and the tightness in his chest is back, along with a sudden need to end this conversation with his dignity still intact.

“I’ll live,” Paul grunts, swallowing down the _I’m fine_ which he would have flung at anyone else. But this is Hugh, who deserves better than a lie, even if Paul can’t tell him the whole truth either: that, as much as the future scares him, what scares him even more is for Hugh to see him crack in the face of it. “I just - I - I need time. I’ll call you back, okay? Soon.”

When Hugh’s response finally trickles through, it’s in that unbearably gentle tone that means he’s keeping a tight lid on his own unease and frustration. “Paul… we _have_ time. I’m here for you, you know that. Look, why don't you turn on the visual so we can have a proper talk…”

“I love you,” Paul whispers, and ends the call before he’s tempted to change his mind.  
  


*

  
They’re worried about him. Or, well, let’s put it this way. The ship seems to be comprised of two groups of people: the ones worried about him, and the ones - including the Captain - who don’t give a damn. It’s no surprise that the former are dramatically outnumbered, but that hasn’t stopped them from getting on Paul’s last remaining nerve.

Take Tilly, for one. Paul is sure he heard her on the comm with Hugh several times since they made it back from the _Glenn_. He couldn’t make out the conversation, only her wide-eyed stare as she stood shaking her head while throwing cross-eyed looks in his direction. Subtlety was never her strong suit.

Tilly, of course, is one of the worried few. That she also seems to be in cahoots with Hugh isn’t a point in her favor right now, but Paul’s giving her the benefit of the doubt. He suspects she’s at least part of the reason why Hugh hasn’t barged in on him yet, either to persuade him to sleep or to gauge his reaction to the loss of the _Glenn._ It would explain Tilly pulling a double shift of her own, along with the less-than-subtle ways she’s been hovering around him as if afraid he might snap. Which… well, fair enough. They’ve been trying for hours to make sense of the _Glenn_ ’s salvaged tech, and he’d be lying if he said his nerves were in good shape.

“Get some sleep, Cadet,” he snaps, the next time she drifts by. The circles under her eyes are making her look like she walked right out of a stimulant ad. “Skip the rest of this shift, join us again after. You’re no use to me if you keel over on the spot.” That he’s sending her off as much for his own benefit as hers as is a fact unlikely to escape her.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but - that goes for you too,” she shoots back, looking torn between defiance and terror.  “You’ve been working the same shifts that I have. Plus, I’m younger, and -” Tilly’s cheeks are flushed a deep red now, but she gulps down a breath and plunges in again, “- at the Academy I pulled all-nighters all the time, so if _I’m_ tired, then maybe it means you should take this shift off as well.” That last statement is delivered in a high-pitched monotone, followed by a crushing silence. “... sir.”

For the first time in hours, Paul actually stops to breathe. “Are you implying,” he says, his inflection icy, “that I’m no longer fit for duty, Cadet?”

Tilly flinches, but doesn’t back down. Of course she wouldn’t. “All I’m saying is that if one of us is compromised - and I’m not saying that’s true, sir, but  _you_ sort of did? - then, um, objectively speaking, that person is more likely to be you.”

“Is that right?” Paul says, still in that same, sterile monotone. Vaguely, he wonders why he isn’t more angry at his authority being undermined like this, and by a kid young enough to be his daughter too. But then, being genuinely mad at Tilly takes a special kind of strength.

Tilly nods, looking encouraged by his lack of reaction. “Really, Lieutenant, I just meant that maybe both of us can stay. We’re almost ready to test these modifications, it’d be a shame to stop now. And I already told Dr. Culber you seemed all right. He agreed there was no need to…”

At the mention of Hugh, Paul feels his whole body stiffen. So Tilly _did_ talk to him. Suddenly, the idea of his partner dissecting his mental state with a member of Paul’s team - and not just any member, but the one person he’d consider calling a friend - feels like such a betrayal of trust that it’s all Paul can do to squeeze out a reply. “So, Dr. Culber is taking your advice now? I wasn’t aware you held a medical degree, Cadet.”

“I… don’t,” Tilly says, the tips of her ears turning pink again. Something in Paul’s tone must have caught her attention, because she snaps her feet together and her gaze drops to the floor. “It really wasn’t a big deal, sir. It’s just, the doctor had some concerns, and since I was there when we boarded the _Glenn_ and found the body of your friend…”

“ _My friend_ ,” Paul cuts her off, the words like gravel in his mouth, “is gone, his body a disfigured, bloody popsicle drifting way too close to Klingon space. And he’ll have died in vain unless we get this tech working, which is exactly what I intend to do. But I can see _you_ ’re far happier playing undercover shrink, so in that case, you can get me a fresh sample of spores, then get out of here. _Now_ ,” he finishes, not because he’s run out of words but because his throat’s tightened up past the point of no return. He can only bear a glimpse of Tilly’s slack-jawed stare before he has to turn away.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Tilly is stammering from behind him. “God, no, it’s not like that at all…”  

“ _Sample_ , Cadet,” he repeats, stabbing a finger at one of the empty tubes. Then, when the only response is shocked silence: “Fine, I’ll get it myself. You can find your own way out.” He grabs a tube, misjudging the angle so it slams into its shin, and fumbles through the breath scan feeling like he’s drowning. By the time the door slides shut behind him, his heart is pounding so fast he’s seeing stars.

He makes it to the edge of the grove, thinking he’ll just harvest the first specimen he sees. Instead his feet carry him deeper into the bay, puffs of spores exploding around him where he disturbs the foliage as he stumbles through. The scent is like a rush of oxygen to the head, thick and sweet and intense, and triggering a memory that stops him dead in his tracks.

They had a grove like this back at the lab. Bigger, and more elegant by far - you wouldn’t give it to Straal, but he had a knack for making things look pretty - and he and Paul were always arguing about the optimal way to use the space. _Discovery_ ’s cultivation bay is a bulky eyesore in comparison, but it’s still got most of the specimens from their original lab. Take this delicate little bush, barely reaching to above Paul’s calf. Straal bred it a couple of years ago, and, modesty never having been one of his problems, promptly named it after himself. Paul made fun of him for it more times than he could count, which Straal would shrug off with an “at least there's a fungus to carry on _my_ name” - a not-so-subtle dig at Paul’s childlessness, and his own.

A moment’s hesitation, and Paul drops to his knees. You can barely see it in this light, but the stems are dotted with tiny seed pods, pulsing faintly with an unearthly glow. Leaving the container on the walkway, he trails a hand along a stem, and yelps. It’s _sharp,_ way sharper than he remembered, blood welling up from the cut in his palm. But instead of pulling back, he finds himself reaching for the tube. _You don’t harvest this one by hand, you fool,_ he can practically hear Straal chide him, but he tosses the thought aside with an ugly kind of satisfaction as he continues to pull at the razor-sharp fronds. _You went and died on me, you bastard, you don’t get to tell me how to do things now._ But the thought feels as empty as the rage he’s trying to summon, and when he finally gives up, even the sight of his tattered, bloody palm stirs nothing in him except a dull fatigue _._

He doesn’t hear the bay doors open. But he can feel the telltale rush of air flooding in, and when footsteps start to clatter across the walkway, there’s no doubt in his mind as to whose they’ll be.

“Oh - my - God,” Tilly pants, as she skids to a stop, eyes bulging. “Oh my God, what did you… That’s _prototaxites stralgense,_ you can’t harvest those by hand! We have tools for that, you taught me yourself, wait, here, let me see…” The next thing he knows, she’s shimmied in beside him, fumbling to grab his injured hand. “And before you say it, I…” She bites her lip. “I know you ordered me to leave, okay, and I promise I will, I just thought I’d better wait until you got back, so I was monitoring the bay filters because no one else was, but then the computer said it detected trace amounts of human blood, and I just… For a second I - I thought…”

Unable to muster a defense against the flood of explanations, Paul lets her talk until she runs out of steam. Something about Tilly’s panicked chatter is almost soothing, and when she’s done, he basks in the silence for a couple of moments before the words finally start to spill.

“Straal… he always said he’d outlive me, you know?” He blinks down at the stubborn, innocent-seeming little plant, which doesn’t look in any way the worse for wear. “He was four years older than I am. Said my heart would give out before I made it past a hundred, because I was too much of a pessimist. I told him I’d bury his senile ass before he could bury mine, of course, but I never…” His voice breaks; an ugly, embarrassing sound that seeps all the way into his bones. “I’ve never been less happy to be proven right. And now his death is pointless unless we crack this thing, so…”

“We _are_ gonna crack it,” Tilly says, frantically dabbing at his palm with a handkerchief that God only knows where she got it from. So far, it’s not helping to stop the bleeding at all. “Or, well, _you_ are. I’ve probably meddled enough for one day, right?” Her lips compress into a tiny smile.

Paul starts to open his mouth, then shuts it again, settles for a long, steadying breath. “You're fine, Cadet,” he sighs, looking down at their clasped hands, blood continuing to drip defiantly onto the soil. Then, with just as weary a grin: “ _Meddler_.”

For once, Tilly has the grace to let him have the last word.  
  


*  
  


Really, it was a lucky shot. They just happened to catch a glimpse of Mudd as he went into the turbolift, which meant Paul could stop trying to prove he wasn't crazy and get straight to the point for once. 

He can’t remember another loop where things were this easy, and it’s such a relief to be able to just _talk_ , with no mentions of Sickbay or pitying glances. Less than four minutes in, he’s retracing Mudd’s steps, Burnham and Tyler trailing a few paces behind him, and for the first time since this insanity started, Paul is actually thinking they might pull this off.

And then they get to Engineering, and it all falls apart.

There’s a body on the floor, which is hardly new. Mudd’s killing crewmen out of sheer boredom now, and Paul is slowly getting used to pretending they’re not there. But this one is different, starting with the uniform: medical white, not standard blue, and a horrible certainty has wrapped itself around Paul’s chest from before he’s close enough to tell for sure.

Behind him, Burnham lets out a startled gasp. Then Tyler pushes past him, dropping to his knees to check for a pulse, and by the time Paul has stumbled through the last few steps, Tyler is already pulling back his hand.

“Oh, God,” Paul mumbles, blinking down at the still, lifeless face. “Hugh…”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Tyler says, and the quiet professionalism in his voice is all that keeps Paul’s legs from giving out. “Phaser blast, point-blank, to the chest. If it’s any comfort, it would’ve been over in seconds. He’ll barely have felt a thing.”

The breath Paul didn’t realize he was holding comes rushing out of him in a strangled sob. Slumping to the deck, he starts to cradle Hugh’s head in his hands, finds he can’t even bring himself to look. Which is absurd, because he knows well enough that Hugh has died just as often as the rest of them - and will again, several times over, before they’re through. This time, he must have come looking for Paul, ran into Mudd puzzling over the spore drive instead. It’s no worse than any of their earlier ends, probably more merciful than some, and come the next loop Hugh won’t remember a thing… so why is it that Paul feels like the unbearable just happened? Like he might not recover from what he just saw?

He wasn’t prepared. He _should_ have been prepared. But how could he? As tempted as he was to stay with Hugh in earlier loops, he knew exactly why he didn’t, and it wasn’t just to save time. From the start, Paul’s been afraid this would happen. That this would be the straw that was going to break his back.

“Lieutenant Stamets?” That’s Burnham, looking stoic as any Vulcan, except for the way she’s gripping the phaser in her hands. “We can’t linger here. If what you say is true, we don’t have much time until Mudd resets the loop again. We should press on.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right, but knowing that won’t help him now. ‘Pressing on’ means getting up from the deck, means letting go of Hugh and going after Mudd, and however hard Paul is trying to do all of those things, his body isn't having any of it. The hand that’s squeezing Hugh’s shoulder is starting to cramp, and he knows his breathing is way too shallow, but he might as well be stuck in a dream for all the control he has over it.

“Easy, Burnham.” The voice comes from right beside him. “We’re not going anywhere just yet.” It takes Paul a moment to realize that Tyler’s still there, he and Burnham exchanging meaningful looks.

“She’s right,” Paul rasps. He scrubs a hand across his eyes, which are weirdly, inexplicably dry. “We’re on a clock here. I - I should have been prepared for this, but -”

“You can’t predict how you’ll react to something before it happens.” Tyler shrugs, but behind the veneer of nonchalance his eyes are dead earnest. “And you’ve been playing this game for a lot longer than we have. No one’s expecting you to just take this in stride.”

“A… game.” Paul lets out an unsteady sigh. “That’s how I’ve been trying to think of it. Well, not a game exactly, but… a theoretical construct. A puzzle. No consequences, as long as time keeps resetting.” He finally forces himself to look down, take in the bloody mess that is Hugh’s chest; he lasts maybe two seconds before he has to close his eyes.  “Except we don’t know that for sure, do we? We can’t predict when reality will kick in again, if there’ll be losses that can’t be undone. I’ve known all of that from the start. It’s just that, as long as I never  _saw_ Hugh die…”

“You could keep going as if he hadn’t,” Tyler says. “Believe me, I know.” Something in his tone snags at Paul’s ear, poking through the fog of weariness and grief that’s still enfolding him like a shroud. It’s the first reaction from Tyler that shows a glimpse of what the man went through - capture, torture, more horrors than Paul could ever hope to endure - and yet it’s _Paul_ falling apart here, Paul who’s finally bitten off more than he can chew.

“I guess you do,” Paul mutters, not sure why he’s trusting Tyler to help talk him through this; only that his gut tells him he should. Paul may not have a degree in psychology, but he knows real protectiveness when he sees it, rare as it is to have it directed at him. “Tell me, then,” he says, flinching at how bitter he sounds. “How do you do it? How do you handle the kinds of situations no human being was built to handle at all? And how do you do it without cutting yourself off from what makes you human in the first place?”

Tyler looks up at Burnham, who’s finished her sweep of the room and is watching them both, an odd vulnerability in her eyes. Of course. Burnham lived through exactly that kind of situation. No wonder she’s drawn to Tyler, and Tyler to her.

Turning his attention back to Paul, Tyler shows no sign of resenting the question. “Look… I won’t pretend to be an authority on this, but I figure… you should let yourself react to things while you’ve got the chance. You’ve got it now, so you ought to take it. Otherwise this’ll only come back to haunt you - not in the next loop, maybe, maybe not for several more, but it’ll happen when you least expect it, when there might not be any friendly faces around.”

Paul nods, swallows hard, closes his eyes. Opens them to the same grisly sight, struggles not to avert his face this time. It hurts - fuck, it _hurts_ , and part of him wants nothing more than to keep shutting it out, but the other part, the one that actually used to listen to Hugh Culber, knows that Tyler isn’t wrong. “And then what?”

“Then?” Tyler’s voice drops to a whisper. “Then you play the game. You bide your time. You do whatever you need to do to survive. You remember that nothing is truly lost until it is. And you never, ever forget who you’re doing it for.” It comes out with such conviction that Paul, despite the exhaustion and the strain and the fear, can actually find himself start to believe it.

And then he almost asks ‘ _Who did_ you _do it for?’_ but that’s really none of his business at all.  
  


*  
  


He’s never been to Tilly’s quarters before. Not on duty, not on happenstance, not for any of the parties she’s been known to host - even if he did get invited once, probably more out of politeness than anything else. It’s always been a strange thought to Paul that, not one to eschew the personal touch, Hugh makes house calls fairly often so most of the crew’s quarters hold no mystery to him. To Paul, privacy is sacred, especially on a starship where it’s so sparse. Which is why he’d never have agreed to Tilly’s oddball request if she hadn’t found out about those side effects. As it is, he never stood a chance. It’s hard enough to refuse Tilly something even at times where he’s _not_ feeling guilty as hell.

“Enter,” a voice says when he rings the chime. The door slides open, not on Tilly but Burnham, atypically casual in slacks and a plain black shirt. “Lieutenant.” She nods, stands aside, gestures him in with an almost perfectly neutral expression. Almost. “Thank you for being punctual… and discreet.”

Paul stands frozen in place for a couple of seconds, one foot across the threshold, one foot outside. But in the end his curiosity - and his promise to Tilly - wins out.

Even knowing Burnham shares his aversion to small talk, sheer awkwardness actually makes him consider it when he slinks into the spartan room. “Tilly said you were expecting me,” he begins instead, trying to ignore the way his collar is chafing against his neck. “Regarding a… personal favor?”

“Yes,” Burnham says, arms folded just a little too tightly at her waist. There’s some comfort in the fact that she’s looking - well, maybe not as antsy as Paul is, but at least not the height of Vulcan detachment either. “I have to admit I was surprised when Tilly proposed this. No disrespect, but you didn’t strike me as a person to…”

“Hand out favors?” Paul says, wondering, too late, if he should be working harder to sound affronted at that. “First time for everything, isn’t there?”

“I suppose there is,” Burnham says, with a little frown. “Though I meant… I was surprised that you’d _ask_ for one.”

“A… favor?” Paul says, feeling his eyebrows bunch up. “Um… no? I didn’t?” He scowls at Burnham through narrow slits of eyes. “Tilly said it was _you_ who needed one.”

Even for someone who’s not actually Vulcan, Burnham’s doing an admirable job of keeping a blank expression. “I… don’t understand. To me, she said the favor was for _you_. That you couldn’t simply ask for it yourself, as it was a delicate matter and no one else could know…” The eyes that search Paul’s face are wide and sincere, and he can see his own bewilderment reflected in them even as she’s trying to fight it. “I agreed because… well, it’s _Tilly_ , there’s no doubt she cares about you, and she sounded like she knew what she was asking, so…”

“I should go,” Paul says, cutting her off. His hand jerks up to squeeze the bridge of his nose, where a headache settled in after his last jump and hasn’t had the decency to stop harassing him since. He’s tired and cranky and suffering and he really, _really_ has no patience for whatever rug just got pulled out from under him. “I’d never have thought Tilly had a knack for practical jokes, but… guess she had us both fooled, huh? I won’t waste any more of your time.” With a final, helpless shrug he turns to leave.

“Wait,” Burnham calls, before he makes it to the door. When Paul looks back, she’s standing beside one of the beds, and he remembers that same, stubborn gleam in her eyes from back when she first showed him the Tardigrade. The one that means _I’m not letting go of this yet._ “Lieutenant… we both know Tilly, don’t we?” She waits for his grudging nod to go on. “I may be wrong, of course, but knowing her, I can’t imagine this to be a prank. Can you?” Another pause; another terse shrug on his part. “So, a… ruse, then? Perhaps because _she_ was the one wanting to do you a favor - one she didn’t think you’d otherwise accept?”

Paul chews the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to examine the notion of Tilly having a laugh at their expense. Weighs it against the odds that she’s just, in that unique, often-exasperating way of hers, hatching some convoluted plan for his benefit, and knows which of the two he’d put his money on. The thought is more than he's ready to deal with right now. “Supposing you’re right…” He swallows, something thick and solid having lodged in his throat. “What was it that Tilly asked you to do?”

Is he hallucinating, or does she actually look flustered at that? Whatever he saw, it’s only a glimpse; then the mask clicks back into place, and the Michael Burnham who sits down on the bed is as calm and unshakable as a rock. “Tilly told me you’ve been experiencing some… difficulties,” she says, eyes fixed on Paul as if bracing for the worst. “She also said not to discuss it with anyone else, or - her words, not mine - ‘the Lieutenant will roast me and eat me alive’. So rest assured that I didn’t. But she mentioned headaches and memory issues, triggered by the exertion from the jumps, and she believed I might -” Deep breath. “- know a technique that could be able to help.”

“I see.” Paul is standing ramrod-straight, feeling like his spine might snap if he so much as tries to breathe. “Well, so much for keeping a secret around here. I told Tilly those things in _confidence_ , but -”

“She knows that,” Burnham cuts him off, as quiet as he’s angry - or scared, or humiliated, or whatever muddled thing it is he’s feeling right now. “For some reason, she must have felt justified in telling me. I won’t pretend this isn’t awkward for me as well, but part of the reason I think Tilly is doing this is… well, I suppose she believes we could both use a friend.”

The breath that hisses through Paul’s teeth feels like all the air spilling out of him; just like that, he remembers how tired he’s been, how tense and unmoored since he’s had to keep Hugh in the dark. Had to, or chose to - the difference is academic now.

“A friend, huh?” he says, flopping down next to Burnham on the bed - less as a concession to her than to make sure his legs don’t betray him first. Objectively, Tilly was way out of line, but that’s been true often enough in the past, and he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t come to see it as part of her strength. Poor Burnham just got caught in the middle, then. “I guess, if you put it that way… what have I got to lose?”

Burnham nods, a flicker of relief in her eyes, and for the first time, she musters a tiny smile. Paul can’t quite bring himself to return it, gives her a tight-lipped nod instead. Knowing Burnham, this is miles out of her comfort zone too; the least he can do is give her a chance. Who knows, it might even do some good.

“Let’s start, then,” she says, in a tone that’s all business; the lack of kid gloves is another thing to be grateful for. “Tilly proposed I try Vulcan neuropressure. You may have heard of the technique; admittedly, it has a reputation of being…”

“Intimate,” Paul blurts, then, at Burnham’s startled look: “Hugh mentioned it to me a couple of times. He never studied it, but I know it fascinates him, and he also described it as… well, _that_ .” A frown. “So, is it? ‘Cause, you know, even for _Tilly_ that would be weird…”

“Give me your hand.” It sounds like an order, not a request, and Paul instinctively finds himself obeying it before Burnham gropes for the magic word. “... please.”

He rolls up his sleeve to bare his wrist, tries not to flinch as Burnham’s fingers press into his palm. “That’s… a novelty,” he breathes,  silently pawing at the collar of his uniform shirt, to pull down the zipper before it stifles him. “I didn’t know Vulcans believed in the healing powers of holding hands.”

“There are pressure points everywhere,” Burnham says, unperturbed. “I thought it best to start with the least invasive ones. Unless you prefer the other way around…” A meaningfully raised eyebrow, and Paul hurries to shake his head. “But I should warn you. At first, this may actually trigger the symptoms it’s meant to counteract.”

“ _Ow_.” A jolt of fire, like a nerve protesting, radiates up his arm and into his skull. “No kidding,” Paul mumbles, his eyes scrunched shut. The worst of it fades after a couple of seconds, but the pressure in his head doesn’t quite abate. “So, how do you know this won’t do more harm than good?”

“I don’t.” Now it’s Burnham’s turn to look uneasy. “I may know the basics of the technique, but on Vulcan, I would hardly be considered an expert at it. I told Tilly as much, but she still thought I should try. I’ll just… have to figure it out as I go along.”

Paul nods, forcing himself to take slow, measured breaths. The pounding in his head is distracting as fuck, and the last thing he wants is for this to trigger another episode of whatever those jumps screwed up in his brain… but then again, Tilly has a point. Burnham is an ally - one of the few he knows he can be certain of. And, as humbling as it is, they  _can_ both use a friend.

“All right… Michael,” he sighs. “I trust you. Please, try not to prove me wrong.”  
  


*  
 

Paul comes back to himself wrapped in another man’s arms, and for a moment - with reality fractured around him, toothbrush clutched in his hand as he gapes at the mirror - he _doesn’t recognize the face._ He was somewhere else, and all he remembers is absence, no arms to enfold him and no kind voice to soothe him and a big, gaping hole where his heart should have been.  

And then he blinks, and blinks again, finding the thread that binds this universe to him, hauling himself up by it with all the energy he has left. His right hand spasms, toothbrush clattering into the sink, and he has to lean his head down to keep from toppling over, but there’s a voice calling his name with quiet, unwavering strength. A voice that he knows, intimately.

“Paul.” It rings out through the chaos and confusion, and with it comes a memory too. A smile - sometimes teasing, sometimes earnest, always full of affection - and a gaze overflowing with empathy. It’s the same face Paul is seeing in the mirror now, only stripped of its smile, with shock fresh in its eyes. “Paul, I’m here. Are you with me? Do you know who I am?”

It takes Paul a few seconds to open his mouth, and at the first attempt, all that comes out is a pathetic-sounding whimper. An arm is wrapped tight around his chest, and when his legs finally buckle it doesn’t let go. The next thing he knows, Paul is on his knees on the bathroom floor, his head feeling like it’s about to explode, but the sense of wrongness is slowly fading and from some corner of his memory he drags up a name.

“ _Hugh_?” Saying it tastes like a revelation. From the way the other man catches his breath, Paul knows he must have gotten it right. “Hugh,” he repeats, half sob, half sigh, leaning in when warm fingers cup his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Hugh says, sounding oddly wheezy, which is enough to finally snap Paul out of his trance. “Yeah, it’s me. Just… take it easy. I thought I’d lost you for a moment there.” There’s a rawness to his tone that’s new to Paul, steely and fragile all at the same time. “Feeling better?” He strokes Paul’s hair.

“I’d… tell you, except... Can’t remember what I was feeling a minute ago.” As answers go, it’s an honest one, at least. And it’s not until a grimace crosses Hugh’s face that it hits Paul what it was that he saw in it before.

Fear. It was fear. For _him_.

His dearest doctor, who’s looked death in the eye dozens of times, devoted his life to holding it at bay, not to mention the one person Paul knows who’s never let fear or prejudice guide him… And yet Paul’s gut tells him Hugh is _terrified_ now, no matter how hard he’s trying to fight it.

“You don’t remember?” Hugh says, and the minuscule tremor in his voice confirms it. “Paul, I - I never even saw you pass out. Are you saying you lost all the intervening time?”

Paul bites his lip, struggling to reach for calm, but he might as well be tilting at windmills right now. What he remembers is begging Hugh to let him leave Sickbay, desperate for familiarity and a chance to talk in private after those mad one hundred-and-thirty-three jumps. He remembers dragging Hugh to the bathroom to shower, for no other reason than because they could; then a sudden, blinding pain in his head and the sensation of things _shifting,_ and then… then nothing was how it was supposed to be.

“Did I say anything?” he asks, sidestepping the question. “When I was spaced out, or catatonic or whatever it is we call this… Did I respond to you in any way at all?”

Hugh nods, his face a study in self-restraint. “Not verbally, but… yes. I had the impression you were able to hear what I was saying. You just… didn’t seem to know who I was.”

That triggers a flash of recognition, like a veil lifting, then dropping down again. “You weren’t there,” Paul mumbles, heel of his hand mashed against his temple, as if to physically drag out the memory. “I was… somewhere else. A place where you don’t exist. I’ve been there before, I’ve seen glimpses of it: fragments of lives, echoes of people I know. Only never of _you_ , because you… aren’t there.” It’s coming back to him now, one thought snowballing into another, along with the numbness and icy despair. “I can’t tell you how I felt because I felt nothing. Nothing worth living for, anyway. Nothing that made any sense.”

“God, Paul…” Hugh sounds as close to tears as Paul’s ever heard him - short of that one time they went to see _La Traviata_ and ran out of tissues before the piece was done. “Is this what you’ve been going through all that time?”

“No.” In an impulse, he catches Hugh’s hand, not sure if he said that because it’s true or just to staunch the pain in Hugh’s voice. “Or… yes, in a way, but never like this. I’ve lost track of where I was at times, I keep remembering things about people that can’t possibly be right, but… it was always details. Like a - a glimpse through a broken pane of glass. I never forgot people altogether. I never forgot _you_ .” Saying it out loud brings the horror of it home again: being caught in that cold, empty place where he didn’t even know his lover’s name. He imagines being trapped there indefinitely, almost finds himself choking on the thought. “I don’t know if I could go through that again. Don’t know if I can stand _you_ having to go through that again. And I don’t want to risk ending up in that nightmare for good. Not _that_ nightmare. Not without you.”

“I…” Hugh’s lips press together in a small, pained pout, and it’s all Paul can do not to kiss him then and there. Remind himself that he hasn’t lost him yet. “I’m sorry, Paul. I truly am. You know I’d fix this if I could, but… honestly, right now I don’t know where to start.”

“But I do,” Paul says, reaching for a conviction he’s never allowed himself to feel before. “I can stop making jumps. I’ll tell Lorca I can’t do this anymore. He’ll be livid, and it won’t undo any permanent damage, but we won’t know what it _will_ solve until we try.”

The way Hugh’s nostrils flare tells Paul this was the last concession he was expecting, and that in itself is too painful for words. It’s all the assurance he could ever have needed that putting a stop to this is the right call.

“After all you sacrificed to travel the network?” Hugh says, that choked brittleness finding its way into his voice again. “I won’t lie. I’ve considered asking you to stop, but I don’t see how I could. It’s not my place to make that choice for you. I’ll never forget the light in your eyes when you described that first jump. The belonging, the joy…”

“It’s not just joy.” Paul gulps down a breath, lets it back out in a long, shuddering sigh. “Not anymore. At this point, it’s just a huge pain in the…”

“Of course,” Hugh cuts in, looking anguished now. “But I know you, Paul. You’ve never let that stop you before.”

“Not in the past, maybe.” Paul blinks down at their still-joined hands, a tapestry of pale and dark. Hugh has always been the light to balance his darkness. It’s time Paul returned the favor for once. “But I can’t be happy at your expense. I’m sorry I kept things from you. I just… I can’t take the chance of losing you, be it in real life or just in my head. If I don’t stop jumping, there’s no saying that won’t happen. So no, _my_ pain wouldn't stop me, but yours will.”

“You mean… you’d give all of that up?” Hugh's grip on his hand has tightened to the point where Paul can feel his fingers start to go numb. “For me? For  _us_?”

“By ‘all of that’, I assume you’re referring to the creepy-ass visions? The crippling headaches? What’s left of my brain slowly turning to mush?” Paul scoffs sullenly, or tries to, but it comes out a faint sob. “Really, Hugh, what’s left to give up?”

“How about your life’s dream?” Hugh says, his eyes soft and bright like the promise of a whole universe before them. They _have_ a whole universe, still. No matter what Paul is going to have to give up, no matter how much he’ll miss it - as long as they’re together, how can that not be enough?

“My life’s dream is right here,” Paul breathes, and leans in to show him.

  
*

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this during the season 1 hiatus, and it ended up taking me so long to finish that we're almost at the season finale now... so some of the canon stuff mentioned here may already feel like it happened half a lifetime ago. I hope you'll still enjoy the read - and my take on Paul and the others. <3


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